Why you Don't Mess with Sam Winchester
by Welcome to my House of Mirrors
Summary: When the son of an old enemy comes back for revenge, Sam provides to be an excellent punching-bag. Hurt!Sam, Protective!Dean, and my first Supernatural fanfic. Rated for mildish language and mildish violence. Sorry for the kind of sucky title, couldn't think of anything better.


**Disclaimer: _I do not nor will I ever own Supernatural or any of the characters presented by the show._**

**As stated in the summary thingy, this is my very first Supernatural fanficiton. Hope you like it! I'm also attempting to write in American speach patterns and words for the sake of the story (since I am not American) so I apologize if I butcher it. Happy reading!**

* * *

"Rise and shine, Sammy-Boy."

Sam jerked his head to the side involuntarily as a bright light was shone directly into one of his eyes, effectively and unpleasantly rousing him from the heavy darkness that had encompassed him just seconds before. He blinked rapidly against the glare until it faded and left the sight of the blurry, tilting room before him in its wake.

What the hell?

This… was not the motel room. Nor was it the Impala, or the diner, or the Black Magic Shop, or anywhere else he recognised for that matter. The room he was currently residing in was old and very large, with rows of ancient concert hall seats and a dusty balcony decked with torn red hangings. There was a grand chandelier hanging from the high ceiling above him that had slots for candles instead of light bulbs, and most of the high stained-glass windows were broken. It took Sam a minute to realise that he was on a stage.

He was very uncomfortable. His head ached something fierce and his arms felt odd, the muscles along them stretched and taught and protesting as if they'd been that way for a long time. There was the mild burning of thirst in his throat. He moved his tongue around, trying to get some of the cottony feeling in his mouth to go away.

Sam was surprised to find that when he tried to poke his tongue out of his mouth to wet his lips, it hit cloth. No matter how much tried to move it out of the way, the cloth wouldn't budge. A gag, then. And if there was a gag, there was mostly likely some other form of restraint as well. There was, he found a second later as he tried to move his hands to the gag; a rope, too tight around his wrists, tied to something and suspending him so that the tips of his boots just barely brushed the rotting wood floor beneath him. Well, that explained the arm thing.

Squinting into his dimly lit, blurry surroundings, Sam turned his head and saw that there was someone standing next to him, watching him with a small, amused smirk on his face.

So. Sam was gagged and hanging from his wrists in some old auditorium thing with no recollection of how he got there, a concussion — if the blurriness and nausea were anything to go by — and some strange guy — probably his kidnapper — watching him. Perfect. Just freakin' perfect.

"Who the hell are you?" Well. That was what he _meant _to say. But it was probably already slurred due to the head injury, and when muffled by the gag it just came out sounding like, "Hmmahllaoo?"

The man next to him's smirk grew more pronounced as he shook his head. "Sorry, Sam. Don't speak that language." He stepped more directly into the faint light, allowing Sam to better see his features.

Sam's eyes widened for a split second before narrowing into a glare. He recognised the man now. He had gone to school with him until they'd found out that his dad, who had some sort of deal with the devil and a major superiority complex, made it his life's work to kill hunters. Moretti, Sam remembered someone calling the son. Eli Moretti.

Looks like someone decided to join the family business.

"Recognise me now, Sammy?" Moretti asked mockingly, cocking his head slightly to the side. "Good. Now you know what I'm here for. But first, I haven't been to the gym in a while and it seems I'm a bit out of practise with my boxing skills. I thought maybe you could help me with that."

Sam glared as Moretti circled him, slow and threatening. It was no use struggling; the rope was far too tight and Sam had a feeling that that was what Moretti wanted. Besides, even if he did get away, there was no way in hell he could fight against a highly trained hunter — because that was what Moretti was; he just hunted other hunters — in this condition and win.

Moretti's smile grew more sadistic as he stood maybe a foot away from Sam and said softly, "I'll stay away from your face. I want Dean to know without a doubt who it is that's dead on the stage of the old concert hall. But I'm gonna make you scream, Winchester."

Now, Sam may not have been able to fight, but he could still keep his dignity. Moretti wanted him to scream. Well he wouldn't. No matter what happened.

He wouldn't.

* * *

It was dark by the time Dean woke up. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he was sitting at the table, half of the various papers he'd been looking at strewn on the floor and the one he had been laying his head on darkened with a wet spot that definitely wasn't drool. He recalled being deeply immersed in the research of this hunt and vaguely hearing Sammy say that he was going out to get some food. Judging by the lack of light outside of the grimy motel window, that had happened a few hours ago. He wondered why Sam hadn't woken him.

Dean yawned and sat up, rubbing a hand down his face before stretching his stiff arms over his head. A quick survey of the room told him that no one had broken in or taken anything and it was 7:24 in the evening.

It also told him that Sam wasn't there.

Frowning, he called, "Sammy?" There was no response. Dean stood and strode over to the bathroom. It was dark and the door was open, but he tried anyway. "Sam? You in here?"

As he'd predicted, the bathroom was empty, along with the rest of the motel room. Dean flipped on the light and began looking for the keys to the Impala. Sam had walked to wherever he was going to get food, and at least if the car was gone Dean would know that his little brother had been in a fit enough state to come back and take it.

No such luck. Keys on the counter, car in the parking lot, no note, and no Sam. Just what Dean needed.

Sighing in frustration, Dean pulled out his phone and flipped to 'Sammy' in his contacts. He pinched the bridge of his nose as the phone rang.

"Sam, I swear, if you wander off _one more time_ I'm going to buy you a fucking leash," he snapped to the voicemail. "Where the hell are you? You said you were getting food. Well I'm hungry." He shoved the phone into his pocket and began to pace.

Dean couldn't help the slight worry that curled in his stomach. The last time Sam had disappeared like this, some ghost had tried to blow him to Kingdom Come. Pretty much all of the Winchesters' luck was shit, but the youngest just seemed to have that special _something _that attracted all trouble within a ten-mile radius. Dean had lost count of all the times his brother had nearly given him a heart attack. He had probably lost five years on his life from all the worrying he did.

"You're a dead man when you get back here, Sam," Dean growled to the voicemail twenty minutes later when Sam still wasn't there and hadn't called him. "I don't need this right now. If your ass isn't here by eight o'clock, I'm coming out to look for you. And let me tell you something; you _definitely _don't want that to happen."

The worry that had started earlier now panged sharply in Dean's gut, rising and turning to anger somewhere between his throat and his brain. Sam was nineteen. He should know better than to just go off without telling anyone anything. Dean _really _didn't need both his father _and_ his younger brother off God knows where doing God knows what.

Dean halted in his pacing and dragged his hand down the side of his face. If Sam was doing some stupid shit and simply _ignoring _him, there would be hell to pay. But if Sam was in some kind of trouble…

A quick glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table told Dean that it was 7:47. "Screw it," he muttered, grabbing the keys off the desk and pulling on his jacket.

Because if Sam was in some kind of trouble, the hell Dean was just going to sit here and let it happen.

* * *

"You're resilient," Moretti commented, panting. Sweat dripped down the side of his face.

Sam, breathing nearly as hard as the shorter man, shut his eyes tight against the overwhelming feeling of nausea brought on by a well-placed roundhouse kick to the gut. A sharp right hook to the left side nearly pulled a moan of agony from him, but he swallowed it down along with the vomit that had made its way up his throat and focussed on taking deep, even breaths.

He wished Dean would come.

Because Moretti was just having a fucking _field day_ using him as a punching bag and Sam was powerless to stop him.

"I was sure I would have broken you by now," Moretti continued. "I guess that's the Winchester in you, though, huh? The old 'suck it up' initiative that's been hammered into your brain since you were in grade school." He took a drink from the water bottle sitting next to him and then grinned. "But you were never good enough, were you?" Moretti chuckled at the shocked look on Sam's face. "Uh huh. I saw you, Sammy. Your dad would come to pick you up from school and end up yelling at you for one thing or another, and you would look so _heartbroken_. Almost every day. But Daddy didn't notice, did he?" Moretti shook his head, still grinning wickedly. "Nah. Daddy Winchester never noticed how bad he was hurting little Sammy-Boy." With that Moretti put down the water bottle and continued his onslaught on Sam's already battered body.

While Sam gritted his teeth against the pain, be couldn't help put think about how Moretti had been spot-on with the relationship between him and his father. He remembered those months at school. He was twelve. Their dad had been going on a shot-in-the-dark kind of lead, and it'd had him frustrated to no end. There was always _something_ for Dad to pick on Sam about; why didn't you get your homework done earlier, why the hell should you go to the library to study when there's work to be done, why are you so tired after school, and always, _always_, why can't you be more like Dean. _I'm not Dean_, _Dad,_ Sam had said once. _I'm Sam. Sam, not Dean._

It hadn't mattered that Sam wasn't Dean, though. He was never good enough.

Sam was startled out of his thoughts by a low keening sound. It took him a minute to realise that it was _him_ making the noise, but when he did he immediately tried to stop. It was hard, though; a white-hot pain was flashing down his left side along with the throbbing coming from _everywhere _and the pounding in his head. And he was finding that once he started making noise, he almost couldn't shut up. Almost.

The smirking Moretti held the source of the new pain in his hand. It looked to be a hunting knife, and he was twirling it around and around between the tips of his fingers. Something hot and wet trickled down onto Sam's jeans and soaked into the fabric.

"Gotcha," Moretti said.

* * *

Dean had checked every store, restaurant, and bar in the whole damn town of Maurice, Louisiana, and there was still no sign of Sam.

It was now 9:08 at night. Dean had left at least twenty messages on his little brother's phone, from casual to threatening to pleading. Sam had yet to call him back. Worry churned in the older brother's stomach, fighting the anger for dominance.

"Sammy," he muttered into his phone now, his forehead resting against the top of the steering wheel that one hand gripped tightly, "just call me back, okay? I don't care where you've been or what you're doing. I just really, really need to know that you're all right." Dean snapped the phone shut and dropped it in his lap, moving his hand to mirror the other on the steering wheel.

Where could Sam be? There were only so many places that the kid could get to on foot, most of them being in Maurice. Granted, he could have gotten lost… But Maurice wasn't that big and Dean had already checked every place there possibly was to check. Besides, Dean would have liked to think that his brother had the common sense to _call him _if he got lost. With Sam's luck he was already dead.

Rejecting that thought violently, Dean sat up and left the parking lot of the gas station he was currently at. He drove around town once more before settling himself at a bar. Because really, what else could he do? He'd looked everywhere four times and called Sam two-dozen. Now he could only wait and pray to God that his baby brother was okay.

"I'll take a shot of whiskey," he said to the pretty dark-haired bartender. She raised her eyebrows at him before going to fill his order. "Wait," he mumbled. She paused. "Make it a double."

She smiled at him sympathetically as she slid the liquor over to him. "Rough night, huh?"

Dean snorted and downed the whiskey. "Tell me about it. How the hell do you lose a whole person in a town this small?"

She chuckled softly. "Who'd you lose?" she asked, leaning her forearms against the bar in front of Dean.

"My brother," Dean replied. "All six feet four inches of him."

The bartender raised her eyebrows and refilled Dean's glass. "And how, may I ask, did you manage that?"

"I wish I knew," Dean sighed before tipping the next shot and standing. "As much as I'd love to stay here and drink myself into a coma, I have to find Sammy."

She smiled at him. "I understand," she said. "The next time you need a double and someone to talk to, though, just come back and ask for Desiree."

"Thanks," Dean replied, smiling back and placing his money on the table.

He pulled out his cell and tried calling again as he walked to the car, even though he knew it was a futile effort. He nearly dropped the phone in shock when someone answered.

"Where the _hell _are you?" he snapped before Sam could say a word, quickly getting over the surprise.

"_Well someone's temperamental_."

Dean froze. That was definitely not his brother's voice. "Who is this?"

"_Don't remember me? Sam didn't either, not at first. You might remember my father, though. You _did_ kill him after all. Murdered him in cold blood just because he was taking care of people like _you."

Dean did remember. It was hard to forget a man who killed hunters because 'the devil commanded he do his bidding'. Crazy son of a bitch that guy was. They should have known that the kid would want revenge.

"What the hell have you done with my brother?" Dean demanded, voice low and dangerous.

"_Don't worry, Dean. Sam's not dead yet_," Moretti assured.

Fury washed through the older brother, burning in his veins along with newfound fear. "When I get my hands on you —"

"_You'll have to find me first_," Moretti taunted. The line went dead.

Dean let lose a string of curses and slid into the Impala, throwing it in gear before skidding onto the nearly empty main road. He didn't know where he was going — didn't have the faintest idea —, but he was going to find Sam.

And he was going to kill Moretti.

* * *

Sam inhaled harshly as a soft, almost inaudible crack sounded from his left side, high up near his chest. Moretti's eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas morning and he hit Sam there again; once, twice, three times, before a sharp snap had Sam biting his tongue hard enough to taste coppery blood.

"Yahtzee." Moretti grinned wickedly and aimed one more right-hook at Sam's ribs. There was another loud crack. "Broke something."  
A few stray tears made their way down Sam's cheeks as he shut his eyes tight against the pain. This had been going on for hours. It was the first time anything had been broken, but the constant abuse being dealt to the taller man's body was really taking its toll. He was thirsty, too. So thirsty.

"Dean's not very happy with me." The mention of his older brother's name made Sam's eyes snap open. Moretti was smirking at him and toying with the knife — which, Sam had come to realise, was what had been used to knock him out in the first place. "No, not happy at all. That protective streak's going to get him killed one day."

Sam saw red. He struggled against the ropes that bound him, ignoring the pain, trying to say, "Don't touch him," and actually saying, "Nnuhnnuhnih!"

Moretti laughed. "Calm down, Sammy-Boy. I'm not going to hurt him. I want to be able to see how your death breaks him. He might even end up killing himself."

That did it. Sam started yelling, "No!" (which came out more like, "Nuh!") and lashing out at Moretti with his feet. The shorter man danced around Sam, just out of reach, and laughed.

It didn't take long for Sam to wear himself out. He dangled limply, his chin dropped to his chest. His breathing was fast and shallow due to his broken ribs and the fact that his body was no longer taking very kindly to the fact that he was strung up by his wrists.

"Given up so soon?" Moretti asked softly. "Pity. What would Dean think to know that you died without a fight?"

Sam whimpered and scraped weakly at the floor with the toes of his boots, trying to find purchase where there was none. He was starting to accept the fact that he was going to die here in this dusty old concert hall, and that scared him more than anything.

_I'm sorry, Dean,_ he thought to himself as tears blurred his vision once more. _So sorry_.

* * *

"Damn it," Dean growled.

He had no idea what to do. None. Because Sam was stuck God knows where with some crazy-ass guy intent on killing him. Hell, he might already be dead.

Dean had tried to call again countless times after Moretti had answered. No one had picked up, of course. The older hunter had checked and rechecked every place in Maurice and a few towns outside of it even. Still no Sam.

He was currently parked in a convenient store parking lot, pacing outside of his car and desperately wracking his mind for a plan. He was pulling up blank on all sides.

Dean was about to hurl his phone at the nearest tree after calling and getting no answer _again_ when he remembered.

Sam's phone had a GPS tracker.

Praying that it was still turned on, Dean fumbled to get to it. "Thank God," he breathed when the map came up with the little red dot indicating his brother's position.

As it turns out, Sam was located somewhere a few towns away from Maurice, farther than Dean had been looking. Dean followed the map into a town that looked like it was from the nineteenth century. It also looked like no one had been there _since_ the nineteenth century. He shook his head and refocused on the phone in his hand, but the map didn't go anywhere else. It went into town and that was it.

Cursing, Dean checked his watch. He had been driving for about forty-five minutes, which made it nearly eleven o'clock now. If he didn't find Sam soon…

Dean slid his 9mm into his jacket pocket and walked over to the nearest building. A well-placed kick just beneath the handle had the door open, revealing the empty room inside. There was no one there. Groaning, Dean ran a hand over his face and sagged against the doorframe. There had to be a better way to do this. He couldn't afford to waste time.

It suddenly occurred to the older hunter that unless Moretti had _carried_ his 6'4" 200 pound brother to this God-forsaken town, there had to be a car somewhere.

Sometimes Dean marvelled at his own stupidity.

He got back into the Impala and began to drive around again. Finally, ten minutes later, he found what he was looking for.

He opened the door to the big building quietly, his gun held out in front of him. It was some sort of auditorium thing, he found a minute later as he stared down rows of old seats to a stage. The stage was dimly lit by some candles, and in that light he could see his younger brother, suspended by a rope around his wrists. The rope ran through a metal ring sticking out of the ceiling, pulled taught and tied off to a similar ring sticking out of the right wall. Dean couldn't see his little brother's condition from where he stood, but fury boiled beneath the surface of his skin. He was almost shaking with it. Sam looked up at him but didn't say anything. Probably because of the gag.

Dean crept silently down the walkway towards the stage. Moretti was too busy wailing on Sam to notice him. The younger man did notice, however, when Dean cocked the gun, pointed it at him, and said, in a clear, dangerous voice, "Get the hell away from my brother."

Moretti whirled around, the shock evident on his face. When the situation became apparent, he stepped over to Sam, standing almost behind him and erasing any clear shot Dean might have. Now, if Dean tried to shoot Moretti, he was in danger of shooting Sammy, too. The older man cursed.

"You weren't supposed to find us, Dean," Moretti said casually, if a bit shakily. "I would have told you where we were. After, of course, Sammy-Boy here was pushing up daisies. This… complicates things."

"Damn straight it complicates things," Dean growled, the hand at his side curling into a fist. "Come out here and be shot like a man. Stop hiding behind my little brother, you son of a bitch."

"That's not very friendly," Moretti commented, his eyes flickering towards the exit to the left of him.

"You run, you die," Dean snapped. "You don't move, you die. You come stand in font of me and stop being a coward, you die. Either way, you die. So why don't you make this easier on everyone and just _let me shoot you_."

"No can do, Winchester," Moretti sneered, pulling a hunting knife from his pocket and holding it to Sam's neck with a shaking hand. It would have been comical; Moretti was shorter than Dean, and with Sam hanging above the ground like that the man had to reach up high to get to Sam's throat. Moretti could still kill the taller man, though. So it wasn't funny. Not even a little bit.

Dean weighed his options. He could try to kill Moretti now and risk hurting Sam. He could wait to see if Moretti would move and risk having Sam killed. Or…

Aiming low, Dean pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the top of Moretti's foot, and Moretti dropped the knife. He gasped in pain and staggered back, falling to the ground. Perfect. Dean pulled the trigger again, and this time Moretti lay still, his eyes vacant and glassy as they stared unseeingly to the ceiling above him.

"And _that_ is why you don't mess with my little brother."

Dean put the gun away and scrambled onto the stage. Reaching up, he untied the gag around his younger brother's mouth.

"Hey, Sammy," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Long time no see. Break anything?"

"Ribs," the younger man replied. Blood spilled past his lips. Dean stared in horror. Broken ribs could very well mean a torn lung, and if Sammy was bleeding from his mouth…

"Bit my tongue, don't worry," Sam stated, noticing his brother's distress.

Dean sighed in relief and began cataloguing the rest of Sammy's injuries. His face was left relatively unscathed aside from a shallow cut across his left cheekbone and a gash at his right temple. He probably had a concussion. There were the broken ribs, and a nasty-looking cut marred Sam's left side. Blood had soaked into his shirt and jeans. Dean despaired of what he would find under the clothing, but so far everything looked fairly superficial.

"I'm gonna let you down now, Sammy," Dean stated, walking over to the loop where the rope was tied off. "Nice and easy."

He untied and lowered the rope slowly, watching as his brother folded himself to sit Indian-style on the wood floor. Dean then came back and gently untied the rope from around Sam's wrist, wincing at the bloody rings the material had left in the skin.

"You okay, kiddo?"

"'m okay," Sam replied, slurring slightly but sounding sincere. "Thanks for finding me, Dean."

"Always, little brother," Dean said softly. He smirked. "I think I'm still gonna make good on my promise, though."

"What promise?"

"The promise to buy you a leash."

Sam smiled.

* * *

**And that concludes my fist Supernatural fanfiction! I was thinking about doing a continuation involving John and his reaction and stuff, so tell me how you would feel about that. Bye!**


End file.
